


on the cabin walls

by Ronabird



Series: build me no shrines [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Touching, Discussions of Asexuality, M/M, No beta we die like archival assistants, as is the jonmartin way, canon-atypical soul animals that do it for you, canon-typical inability to communicate, cute then sad then cute then sad again, no need to read the longer one first, see notes for content warnings and spoilers list, standalone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24548536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronabird/pseuds/Ronabird
Summary: The little hawk bursts forward and flings herself full into his chest. Jon staggers, gasps his relief, and releases his vice-grip on Martin's hand to cradle her close.Behind him, he is distantly aware, Martin is simply standing and gazing at his daemon. Brawne gazes back. They do not run to each other, and they do not cry.Or: after the Lonely but before the Eye, Jon and Martin reconnect with their daemons.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: build me no shrines [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767109
Comments: 13
Kudos: 189





	on the cabin walls

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _When Am I Gonna Lose You?_ by Local Natives, which is now my S5 jonmartin song of choice.

There is a lull, before the world goes to hell. It goes like this.

After the Lonely, Jon steps back into the echoing stone cavern of the Panopticon. Martin's hand is still cold in his, but steadily warming, and gripping hard enough to leave painful little crescent marks in his palm. It's his scarred hand, Jon notices distantly, the skin warped and uncannily slick with scar tissue— but Martin doesn't seem to mind holding it.

As the fog and the numbing cold clears away, he gets a proper look at the vast empty chamber. Elias is gone, of course. (His owl was still sits statuelike atop the Panopticon, grey with cobwebs, hardly anything left but the too-wide _eyes_. Jonah's shriveled body has not moved in its seat.)

But they aren't alone in the cavernous room: their daemons have been waiting. A large brown hare, sitting at attention with his tall ears up— and a sparrowhawk perched on his fluffy forehead. A neat, sharp little bird feathered in charcoal and rust, with eyes that are _wrong:_ void-dark from edge to edge, except for the remaining flecks of red-orange, shining through like amber stars.

Jon jolts forward instantly, on reflex, hope and longing surging in him like a hot tide. For a horrible moment he is not sure if Mati will welcome him, if the betrayal is too complete, she still feels so _distant—_

And then the little hawk bursts forward and flings herself full into his chest, a light little feathery projectile. Jon staggers, gasps his relief, and releases his vice-grip on Martin's hand to cradle her close.

"You _idiot,_ " she sobs at him, her voice small and sweet and _his,_ "you— you _left_ , you nearly _died_ , you absolute _idiot—_ "

"I love you," he chokes out, full in front of Martin and not caring, no room left to care, "I, I'm sorry—"

Behind him, he is distantly aware, Martin is simply standing and gazing at his daemon. Brawne gazes back. They do not run to each other, and they do not cry.

The sight is so painful to witness that Jon and Mati turn together, neither knowing who has the thought first, the little hawk still cradled in his arms. _We have to_ , Jon thinks, and _hold them_ , Mati finishes for him. He feels the flush creeping up his neck, embarrassed, hapless, but it is such a relief from the flat cold of the Lonely that he could not possibly mind.

"Martin," he says, choking on it just a little, and cannot help his flinch when Martin looks at him with still-dazed and still-distant eyes, "Martin, I think—"

Something echoes, far down the passageways of Old Millbank Prison. Jon tenses, listening.

"We have to go," he says. "The Hunters are still here."

The hawk and hare both look at him, and something twists small and aching in his chest. No time for it, though. They have to run.

Running involves Tube stops (Jon's breath catches, as it always does, expecting the crush of earth), and Basira's voice tinny on his cellphone, and directions to board a train. Safe houses, Daisy's places scattered north...

"I lost track of her," says Basira, over the phone, sounding miraculously unhurt. "I've got to keep looking. But I can tell you how to find the key. Just get out of here for now, keep your heads down."

So they do.

It's an unending stream of transit later, Jon nodding off on Martin's shoulder and his knee almost-but-not-quite brushing Brawne, that they reach the cabin. The hills around the cabin are a gentle, uniform green. The sun has set and slept and risen again; dawn is breaking watery and cool across the darkened sky.

It is peaceful. This is so bizarre it takes Jon's breath away, makes him hold his daemon close to his chest; she flutters to his hands so he can feel her little talons pricking his palm. The world has that still, open smell of very early mornings.

"Right," says Jon, shaky, as they open the door. "We made it."

"Looks that way," Martin agrees. He's still... hollow, a bit. Still distant. Whenever there's room for it, his daemon trails some distance behind him, just on the edge of a comfortable range.

Jon knows, because he feels it, too: _comfortable range_ doesn't matter for them anymore. That tether isn't just stretched by the yank of the Vast or pared neatly apart by the End. The distance is cold, and aching, and it feels of _betrayal_. Of paring away some vital part of himself and leaving her discarded.

They've left the fog behind. There's no physical scar of it, not on Jon nor on Mati. But he thinks he will be aware of that cool, distant ache until the day he dies. (If ever he dies.)

"Martin," he says, as they set down their meagre things on the dusty cabin floor. "We should—"

"Can you check we're alone?" says Martin, cutting him off. Jon finds this a bit unnecessary, given the sheer degree of dust on everything— but then he recalls _statement of Trevor Herbert_ and the image of a vampire trailing her way through caked dust, and reconsiders.

He Knows they're fine with a flicker of thought. The tape recorder isn't even running. But he still pokes his head into every room, to be sure. Martin snatches up a heavy table lamp and ghosts along behind him. (If there _were_ trouble, this would be a nice gesture, and perhaps even worth something; Martin is tall and broad enough that he tends to _loom_ , for all that he's never seemed to notice it.)

But there is nothing, and then they're alone in the dusty bedroom, Martin still clutching a table lamp. There is only one bed. Jon begins wondering if he can cram himself into the little loveseat by the kitchen; he begins wondering if he really _needs_ sleep enough for it to matter, these days. Perhaps he can borrow the bed in the moments Martin is down at the market gathering supplies, or... something like that.

 _I really loved you_ , Martin had said, in that echoing fog. And Jon has seen— Seen— in him that it's true, still true, still a tangled aching sweet thing like what _he_ shelters in his own chest. And Martin has Seen it in him. So.

So. He doesn't have the first idea what to do with that, honestly, now that they're alone in a silent little cabin in Scotland. Just the two of them, and the daemons they'd left alone on that distant shore.

"... All clear, then." When Martin meets his eyes, Jon feels his stomach drop. There's uncertainty looking back at him, too.

They are frozen like that for a long while, in the silent little bedroom, beside the dusty bed.

Then Mati goes, " _Fine_ , here," and flutters off Jon's shoulder. Martin jolts back, eyes wide and stunned, but not far enough to escape her: she alights on his forearm, little talons pricking through the fabric of his jumper.

He drops the lamp.

" _Oh_ ," says Jon, who feels as though all the air has been knocked out of him at once, but— but it's, oh, it's in a _good_ way. He can feel Martin against his soul, feel the steady warm weight of him against live nerves, but it doesn't _hurt_ , isn't intrusive, it's just— it's so _much_.

It's Martin.

"Oh," chokes out Martin, and it's honestly incredible how quickly his face can flame red. Jon stands rooted to the spot. Martin, across from him, does the same. He looks haplessly from Jon to Mati and back again, stammering. "I- I- oh, god, sorry—"

"Don't be," says Mati, primly, but her voice has gone a little breathy with the _sensation_ of it. "God, this is— _oh._ "

She digs her talons in, a little. Martin squeaks. _Jon_ squeaks, secondhand, and then goes red with embarrassment at _that_ as well. They are silent for another long, tense moment.

Then Martin brings up a single finger toward her breast, and he hesitates there, eyes bright and terrified with the unasked question. Awaiting permission.

"Yes," says Jon, feeling as though he's on a cliff's edge and about to go over.

"Please," says Mati, at the same moment, and Jon has to squeeze his eyes shut with mortification at how _needy_ it sounds.

And Martin says, "Alright," all small and awed, and brushes his fingertip into the fluff of Mati's breast feathers.

It is like a punch to the gut, or like being struck by lightning, but it is also somehow a way of being _soothed_. Jon makes a sound that might be _hnngh_ and sways on his feet, utterly graceless, and Martin yanks his hand back with a gasp.

Mati, for her part, settles down onto Martin's arm with a contented sigh and a little wing-flutter and wag of her tail. Jon has never been so embarrassed in his _life_.

He wants more of it, though. Immediately.

But— Brawne is still hanging back behind Martin's ankle. His ears are pressed flat, and he's hunkered low, just watching. Jon breathes a shaky little breath and looks between him and Martin, hesitating.

Martin notices, and all at once, draws tense all over. Some of that cold distance shifts over his expression and into his eyes. The sight drops a cold chill into the pit of Jon's stomach.

"Martin—" he starts.

And then Martin crooks his fingers in Mati's feathers, _scritching_ gently. It sends shivers up Jon's spine and turns whatever he'd been attempting to say into a whimpery mess, and then he's too busy flaming red and mourning his dignity to remember the point. He reaches out blindly behind him, drops onto the edge of the bed, given that it's the only available seat and Jon is _not_ confident in his ability to remain steady on his feet.

The shift in Martin's expression is immediate and shocking: his eyes go dark and hungry. The soft edge of his tongue shows between his parted lips, and Jon realizes. He is _swooning_ onto the _bed_. In a bedroom that they will be sharing, just the two of them alone in the countryside, with Martin's fingers bare and gentle against his daemon's body.

It occurs to him, for possibly the first time ever, that Martin is tall and broad and rather _looming_ over him.

The uncertainty must show on his face, because Martin blinks and then flushes. He yanks his hand away, stammering.

"I, I, uh—"

"Keep going," Mati demands, imperious and utterly confident, before Jon can say anything at all. He and Martin look at her in shock, and then at each other, and then go utterly red.

"Right!" squeaks Martin. He settles, so very hesitantly, to sit on the opposite end of the bed. Mati, on his arm, shuffles her wings in a self-satisfied sort of way, and presses herself again to his fingers. Brawne lopes quietly to the foot of the bed and stays there, watching.

For some unnameable stretch of time— seconds, minutes, more?— Jon watches too, breathless with the intensity of the thing, as Martin gently strokes his soul.

"This is alright?" murmurs Martin, and Jon cannot remotely discern which of them that's meant for.

"Yes," says Mati, before he can rally anything resembling logical thought. She shifts, breathless and pleased, to lean further into Martin's touch.

He cards his fingers up through the fluff of her neck, lifting to stroke down her boxy little shoulders—

Jon and Mati flinch in instant unison when he brushes the bare spot behind her neck.

"O-oh! Sorry!" Martin looks poleaxed. He glances between Jon and Mati and that little rumpled place among Mati's feathers, the little thatch of fluff and sleek coverts that's just... _gone_.

"It's alright," says Jon, voice groggy as though he's surfacing from somewhere deep. "It's— don't worry about it."

He certainly doesn't intend to say more than that, to, to _dwell_ on it, but Mati goes—

"Circus." She tilts her little head to look up at Martin. "That's the scar."

"Oh, god," he says, and he crouches closer over here to peer at that patch of missing feathers. "Oh, _god._ Wait, do— do you mean when you were _kidnapped?_ W-what did they _do?_ "

This hangs in the air a beat, and then Martin backtracks.

"Right, no, didn't mean that, let's just—"

"Took some feathers," interrupts Mati, as though it's as simple as that.

" _Don't_ worry about it," says Jon again.

Mati, possibly to spite him, continues, "They were going to make me into a _hat._ "

Jon closes his eyes. Martin's tiny little intake of breath hits him like a blow. He directs the pang of shame at Mati, hopes she feels it secondhand.

"Jesus," says Martin, finally, into the silence. "That's horrible."

"They didn't succeed," says Mati, lightly. "Here I am."

"Here you are," Martin agrees, and reaches forward again with soft hesitant fingertips. "Can I—?"

"Please," says Mati, hungry for it, and Jon buries his face in his hands.

He hides that way as Martin cards warm fingers through his _soul,_ touching in gentle stripes of pressure. He scritches just below the breast feathers and Mati shivers all over, fluffs her feathers out and shakes them down with a happy little wiggle.

"Oh my god," breathes Martin, his eyes wide and dark and very close to Jon's daemon, "that was so _cute._ "

"I'm not _cute,_ " mutters Jon, into the heels of his hands.

"Oh, _not_ true." Martin slides his hand up to pet Mati's wings, now, smoothing down the lines of stuck-up feathers. He frowns at them; Jon has tilted his head up a crack to watch him.

"That was Lottie," Mati supplies, "Daisy's daemon. Before."

"Before," Jon echoes. "She, uh, she's since apologized."

For the knife at his throat and the wolverine's claws raking across his daemon's tiny wings, pinned helpless on the ground—

"Oh," is all Martin says, and, "right," and he just keeps _petting._

There are more rumpled places, more scars. Martin cards his fingers gently over each mussed place among her feathers, Mati shivering beneath his touch.

"Those," she gasps, voice shaky, "that, uh, that's— Prentiss."

"Prentiss," Martin agrees, voice pained. His hand stills on Mati, and Jon wants to snap at him not to dare stop, snap at her to stop _talking_ , she'll ruin it _—_

"The worms," bites out Jon, bitter and restless and feeling caged in his own skin, "they, you know, they got Mina as well—"

Tim's fox. Christ, why bring her up? She's gone, now, nothing but gold Dust dissipated into the world. Jon grits his teeth and turns away with a shaky breath.

"Jon," says Martin. Jon can't identify the layers of emotion in his voice, but he flinches from the warm fingers that brush his shoulder. Martin's other hand is still hovering just over Mati's feathers, close enough he can feel the warmth. Against the hideous _worm-scars_ on his _daemon._

"And she's got a bad wing," he bites out, wanting to see Martin flinch. He does. "And a bad foot to match my _ruined_ hand, and our range is broken in _three_ separate ways—"

"Jon—"

"And her _eyes,_ " he says, choking on it, half a sob before he realizes and then it's too late, "her _eyes,_ Martin, you can't tell me they don't _disgust_ you—"

"Stop it!" cries Martin, finally, and Jon waits for those hands on his soul. But instead Martin flings himself at _him_ , crosses the empty stretch of bed to wrap broad warm arms around Jon's shoulders.

He splutters, squirms, half-panicked by reflex. Thinks of the broad unremarkable hands of Breekon-or-Hope closing around him, and at the same time closing around _Mati—_

"Jon," soothes Martin, Martin, it's just _Martin_ tucking his face against Jon's skinny shoulder and trembling against him. Jon, startled dumb, raises his hands to his shoulders in reply. They hover there, touching only lightly, not quite returning the embrace. "Jon, oh, god, I'm so sorry. She's so _beautiful_. None of this should have, h-have happened to you, but you're so _beautiful_."

Jon has absolutely nothing to say to that. He opens his mouth, closes it again, feels himself go red to the tips of his ears. Mati has alighted in Martin's _hair_ , her little talons against his scalp, and Jon can feel the thrum of connection secondhand.

"Oh," he manages, finally. His fingers tangle in Martin's jumper, broad shoulders under his hands. He hugs back.

Martin gives a watery chuckle against the crook of his neck.

"Martin," he starts, faltering, because he wants Martin's hands on his soul again— and, more than that, he wants to know what _Brawne_ will feel like under his hands. "Can I—"

And then Martin is kissing him.

Jon makes a very undignified little noise of surprise. It is a clumsy kiss. Martin is _much_ bigger than him, practically engulfs him with the hug, and to also be under his lips makes Jon feel he's being swallowed whole by warmth and jumper. It's dizzying, senses flooded with the press and taste of _Martin_.

He kisses back.

Martin's mouth is warm and soft, like the rest of him. Jon shifts in his arms, trying to breathe through the kiss without breaking connection, his daemon still in the man's hair. Mati is reflecting _love-awe-adoration_ at him, their bond singing with it, with the feeling of Martin's warmth under her.

Martin shifts angle, and Jon makes a breathy little sound into it without any thought at all. He feels more than hears the way Martin's breath catches in reply.

Then Martin's tongue brushes his own and Jon jolts, startled and curious and unsure, and he breaks away to breathe.

"Uh," he says, face flushed and mouth faintly wet.

Martin draws away to gaze at him, and the heat in his expression sends prickles up Jon's spine: exhilaration and something else, something uneasy. He takes a moment to track their daemons: Mati in Martin's hair, and Brawne at the foot of the bed, watching them.

"I," starts Jon, and finds that he has no idea what to say. "That was," he tries, and loses nerve again.

Martin, of course, takes this as cue to blink at him as though surfacing back to wakefulness. His shoulders tense, and a horrified little stammer creeps into his voice.

"Oh, I, I just— I sort of assumed—!"

No, they're having none of that. Jon catches him by the back of the head, his fingers threaded through curly hair— this displaces Mati, who flutters to the bedspread with a ping of _amusement/annoyance_ — and drags Martin in again.

They kiss slow and warm, pressed close together on a dusty little bed in Scotland

When Martin becomes bold enough to slide a hand down Jon's back, he draws away again to stammer, breathless and flushed.

"This is— honestly lovely, Martin, but—"

"Oh! Sorry, should I not—"

"No, no, _do_ , it's just—"

Mati, to his absolute horror, pipes up from beside him on the bedspread.

"We don't really like sex? If that's where this is going."

Martin looks at his daemon, and then at him, with comically wide eyes. " _I-is_ that where this is going?" he asks, a little high and squeaky.

" _I_ don't know!" says Jon, half-relieved and half-desperate. He resists the urge to swipe Mati off the bed, but only just. "But, ah, she's right that there may be things you're l-looking for that I— might not be."

"Jon," says Martin, his eyebrows climbing.

"And it's not about _you_ , specifically," he hurries to add. "It's always been like this. Even with—" _Georgie,_ "—with other people, it's always, I just. I'd much prefer to avoid it. There's no _reason_ , no horrific trauma or anything, it just doesn't appeal to me."

"Yes? That's fine?"

Jon scoffs, trying not to _literally_ wring his hands, then stares at him. Martin stares back, with building— what? Incomprehension, indignation?

"Jon, you, you _do_ know that's alright? It's not... weird." He's still eyeing Jon as though he's some particularly mystifying variety of spooked animal. Or simply as though he never thought they'd be having this conversation, which is entirely fair. "There are words for—"

"Not _this_ again," mutters Mati, and Jon does swipe her off the bed, this time. She alights on the pillows to watch them.

"I'm _aware,_ " says Jon, knowing he's gone red and impatient about it, "that there are words for _everything_ , Martin. We can string together shiny and ill-fitting labels all day long, more than I care to keep track of, and still—"

"Whoa," says Martin, "I don't think—"

"I just don't see the _need,_ " says Jon, more vehemently than is maybe warranted. "It's all so vague as to be useless, or so pointlessly specific you still have to _explain_."

"Jon," says Martin, plainly a little offended. "That's _fine._ "

"It's just," says Jon, "this isn't something I'm _good_ at, Martin. This sort of thing."

He gestures, vaguely. It might mean sex, or romance, or talking about either or both. Talking about himself in general, possibly. Perhaps all of the above.

"Right, yes," says Martin, his tone one of patience wearing very thin, which does not go very elegantly with the blush. " _Sure._ I just— I just want to know if this is _okay_. I want to know _what's_ okay. I want to know what you want, so that I'm not just— just doing it all wrong."

Jon subsides with a wash of guilt.

"I don't have much clarity for you," he mutters, "it's not very clearly-defined. It's not always _consistent._ And that's, I, I _do_ recognize that's an inconvenience, I would very much _like_ it to be logical—"

" _Jon,_ " says Martin, warmer now. "I don't mind. Why the hell would I mind? No, don't answer that," he interjects before Jon can finish getting his mouth open, "I mean, obviously I've been— I've wanted you for _years_ , you know, but that doesn't mean... it isn't the most important thing. I've wanted _you_ , Jon. The real, proper you, not just... the sex stuff."

Jon chokes on a laugh that might be a bit watery. "True poetry, Martin."

"Oh, shut up," says Martin. He leans in again, then hesitates. Jon makes things simple by pulling him the rest of the way in, and they melt together again.

Some nameless stretch of time passes as warmth and kissing and the dusty smell of Scottish cabin, which is also now the smell of _safety_. It is the most relaxed Jon can remember being in possibly years.

When they part next, Jon smiles against Martin's lips, and feels him smile back.

"This," says Jon, soft and slow. "This is good."

He is distantly aware of Mati: she has fluttered to Brawne, down off the edge of the bed. He is nosing her gently, and she's attempting to preen his fluffy forehead as though he's a bird, or as though she's a rabbit. The whole thing is charmingly ridiculous.

"Can I touch him?" he blurts, soft against Martin's lips, and Martin draws suddenly away.

Jon blinks at him. Martin, wide-eyed and abruptly panicked, stares back. Down by their feet, Mati and Brawne have gone still.

"Oh," says Martin, fumbling. "Yeah, er. So long as he's alright with it."

"Martin," says Jon, slowly.

"Brawne?" asks Martin, voice a little high.

Jon interrupts him. "Martin, if you'd rather not, that's perfectly understandable. Reasonable, even."

More reasonable than _this_ , he supposes, whatever they're doing right now and whatever they've just done. Martin's hands warm and intent all over Jon's soul before they'd even kissed. That's not— normal. That's not _normal_ escalation. Not that Jon is any good at _normal_ escalation, but he can still recognize what it _isn't_.

But, "It's alright," flusters Martin, even as Brawne remains frozen-still at the side of the bed. "Just a bit— ah—"

"We're afraid," Brawne interrupts. Martin subsides immediately to let him speak, and Jon realizes: he's hardly ever heard the hare say a word. His voice is calm and steady, somehow. Firm.

Jon looks to Martin to confirm it, sees Mati do the same, and under their combined interest Martin cracks. His shoulders slump.

"I'm afraid I won't really feel it," he admits, his voice thin and shaking.

"What?"

"I've left him behind so many times. For so long. P-Peter didn't even—" and Jon realizes with a jolt the watery look coming into his eyes, "Peter didn't even have to _tell_ me to, half the time. I just, I was so ready to be _away_ from myself."

"Martin," breathes Jon.

"And so I _left_ him," and now he's crying but trying not to, mouth twisted miserably as he tries to hold it back, "I haven't even told him—" he directs it to Brawne, now, shaking as he does, "I haven't even told you _sorry_ , not _properly_ , not a-and _meant_ it."

Brawne is trembling, too, now. But he watches his person, intent.

"I'm sorry." Martin breaks all at once, voice hitching with a sob. For a horrible instant Jon thinks the hare will just keep _watching_ , but he doesn't: he breaks away from Mati to lope forward, to tuck his face against Martin's leg, a rabbit's hug. Martin scoops him up and into his lap, there beside Jon on the bed. "Oh, god, Brawne, I'm sorry _._ I, I shouldn't have left you, I shouldn't have—"

"Hush," Brawne is murmuring back, and he leans up to lick a tear from his person's face with a soft little pink tongue. "It's alright, Martin."

"It's not!" weeps Martin, clutching the hare against him. "I, I, I _did_ this to us, and it didn't even _matter_ , it didn't even do anything at all—"

"Martin," Jon starts, but Mati alights on his shoulder and he feels it as a _shh._

"You went in because of me," Martin says to him, almost like an accusation. "You, you _left her_ because of _me._ Because _I_ was an idiot."

It hits Jon with a bolt of shame.

"I did leave her," he agrees. On his shoulder, Mati's talons tighten, and they're both aware of her shiver of discontent. They can talk it through later. "And I don't regret it, Martin. You— you're too important to me."

Martin's laugh is watery and small. " _Why?_ "

Jon gets stuck on the words. Mati says them for him.

"We love you."

He has never seen such pain or such joy on the face of Martin Blackwood.

They curl up like that, shaky, tear-streaked. Mati clings to Jon's shoulder, and Brawne leans into Martin's chest. It takes some rearranging so as not to crush the daemons between them. Jon is very careful of where he puts his hands.

"Jon," says Brawne, directly to him, which makes him jolt with attention. "I'd like it. If you'd touch me."

" _Oh_ ," says Jon, breathless with surprise. He flicks his gaze up to Martin's face. "You really—?"

"Yeah," says Martin, without hesitation. He's biting his lip, face flushed, and for a moment Jon cannot believe how beautiful he looks like this. "Yeah. Please."

Jon reaches out with careful fingers, and Brawne presses forward to meet him. His breath catches as he touches soft fur. The hare closes his eyes and nuzzles closer into the touch, an electric connection under his fingertips.

"Oh, god," breathes Martin, and leans in closer. "D-don't stop."

Jon absolutely does not stop. He scritches the hare's forehead, then between his ears, then the silky fur behind them. Brawne shivers and leans into it, and Martin breathes out what is nearly a whimper.

"You can feel it?"

"It's— kind of distant?" Martin's eyes are hazy and lovely, even screwed up in concentration, as he considers this question. "But it's... so _much_ , Jon. It's you."

"Yeah," says Jon, voice choked by the warmth that pours all through his chest. He hopes Martin can feel it somehow, through Brawne. "Good. You can See me."

It goes on a long time. They fall asleep like that, tangled together still-dressed on top of the covers, humans and daemons together, warm.

It is perfect.

(And then the end comes, of course. Mati _changes_ : her pretty charcoal-and-rust feathers go void-black and sclera-white. Her eyes go _wrong_ , the colour of the staring sky.

Jon doesn't let Martin touch her, after that. He is too afraid that Martin would dig his fingers in among those feathers and _know_ , fully and for the first time, that the thing under his hands is evil.

Mati doesn't have any interest in being touched, now, anyway. All her attention is... elsewhere.

Martin would still try, he knows. Martin loves them wholly and desperately. Jon thinks about this when he cards his fingers through Brawne's soft fur and watches the hare shudder, as though he's aware Jon is also listening to the billions of the screaming damned. Brawne _should_ flinch away, but he never does. He always lets Jon touch him.

Jon doesn't deserve it. He does it anyway. Mati isn't really Mati, anymore; now, Brawne is all he has.

There's not enough human left in him to be worth saving. Martin can be his reason to go on, instead.)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- Martin's canon-typical but absolutely brutal lack of self-worth  
> \- Internalized acephobia from Jon  
> \- Canon-typical Early S5 Jon aka loss of self and hope  
> \- Depression, eldritch and otherwise  
> \- Daemon-touching, but this time it's consensual & wholesome  
> \- Mentions of nonconsensual & nonwholesome daemon-touching
> 
>  **Spoilers in this chapter:**  
>  \- Refers to events through 160.
> 
>  **Daemons in this chapter:**  
>  \- Jon's ~~Eurasian sparrowhawk ( _Accipiter nisus_ )~~ Black-banded owl ( _Strix huhula_ ) Mati - Sanskrit for _intelligence/understanding_ , and a Greek term for the evil eye.  
> \- Martin's European hare ( _Lepus europaeus_ ) Brawne - for the fiancée and muse of Keats.  
> \- Jonah's Eurasian eagle-owl ( _Bubo bubo_ ) Virgil - for the character in the the _Divine Comedy_ , because Jonah is enough of an asshole to think this is fitting.


End file.
